The cemetery was quiet, save for the faint rustle of leaves and the occasional chirp of a distant bird. Zayn stood by his father's grave, hands buried in his pockets, a cold wind biting his face. He exhaled slowly, watching his breath dissolve into the December air, and spoke into the silence.

"Abba," he began, his voice low and heavy, "I'm sorry I don't come here as often as I should." He stared at the name etched into the stone, his jaw tightening. "It's been years, hasn't it? And yet, here I am, still talking to you like you'll answer me."

He crouched, brushing away the dried leaves that had gathered at the base of the grave. "I met someone," he confessed, his tone softening. "She's nothing like the women I used to know. No gold chains or soft hands. Just scars and a mouth that never stops moving." He chuckled dryly before his voice broke. "She reminds me of your words, though. You always warned me, didn't you?"

He repeated his father's advice, his voice dipping into imitation.

"Selfish women are the worst. They don't care about your heart, your feelings. They only care about their happiness and comfort. They'll destroy you."

Zayn tilted his head back, staring at the gray sky. "But she's not selfish, Abba. She's just like me- worthless, lonely. Maybe that's why I keep going back to her." His lips trembled, but he steadied himself. "It's strange, isn't it? How you think you're broken until you meet someone who's just as shattered."

His phone buzzed in his pocket, slicing through his thoughts. He frowned, pulling it out, and the voice on the other end delivered the news: Mirza Sahib had passed away.

---

The hospital corridor smelled of disinfectant and grief. Zayn arrived to find her there- Laila. Not the one in the brothel, but the one who haunted his every thought. She was holding herself against a pillar, her shoulders trembling as she stifled her sobs.

"She's her father's daughter," Zayn thought as he watched her from a distance. He could see the resolve in her face, the effort it took to keep standing, to hold back the storm threatening to break her.

And yet, all he could see was himself-the boy screaming for his father, the boy left alone. The echo of his own voice rang in his ears:
"Abba!"

Zayn swallowed hard, his legs unwilling to carry him forward. He couldn't intrude on their grief, couldn't step into their family's goodbye. He stayed in the shadows, his heart aching as he watched her clutch her father's lifeless hand.
__

He paid the medical bills on his way out, instructing his driver to wait outside for the women. But Zayn himself didn't go home. Instead, he drove to the brothel, his chest heaving with emotions he couldn't name, couldn't contain.

The room was dimly lit, with a soft golden hue emanating from a single antique lamp on the bedside table. The air was warm and heavy with the scent of jasmine, mingling with a faint trace of Zayn's cologne. The walls were adorned with faded floral wallpaper, peeling slightly at the edges, hinting at the countless stories they had witnessed. A small, round mirror hung crookedly on the far side of the room, reflecting shadows that danced with the flicker of the lamp.

She sat on the edge of the bed, her figure bathed in the soft light. Her black dress clung to her slender frame, the neckline modest but alluring, dipping just enough to hint at the curves beneath. The fabric shimmered slightly as she moved, catching the light like embers glowing in the dark. A crimson scarf was draped loosely over her shoulders, a stark contrast to the black, a color that seemed to echo her fiery yet tender spirit.

Her curly hair tumbled in wild waves down her back, cascading over her shoulders like a dark waterfall. It framed her face perfectly, her light brown eyes rimmed with thick kohl, the liner drawn with precision that only accentuated their depth. Her gaze was soft yet piercing, as if she could see through the layers Zayn kept hidden from the world. Her lips, painted a deep shade of red, parted slightly as she watched him enter.

Zayn stood near the door, his breathing slow but heavy, as if the weight of the day had followed him in. He slipped off his black leather jacket, revealing a simple white shirt beneath, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The light caught the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. He draped the jacket over a chair and turned to her, his dark eyes meeting hers for a fleeting moment.

"You look tired," she said softly, her voice like a whisper carried on the wind. She motioned for him to come closer, her hand outstretched, her delicate fingers painted in the same deep red as her lips.

Zayn hesitated, his gaze lingering on her. Finally, he crossed the room and sat beside her. Slowly, he lowered his head into her lap, closing his eyes.

Her hands moved to his forehead, caressing it gently, her touch light as a feather. Her fingers combed through his hair, untangling his tension with every stroke. The room grew quieter, the only sounds the faint hum of the lamp and her soft, melodic humming.

It was an old tune, one he couldn't place but found soothing nonetheless. Her voice wasn't perfect, but it was warm, like the comfort of an old memory.

"I miss him," he whispered, his voice trembling, breaking under the weight of the words. "I miss him so much."

Her hands, roughened by a life she'd never chosen, cradled his head with a gentleness that defied everything else about her. "Who?" she asked, quieter than usual, her sarcasm momentarily silenced.

"Abba," he said, the word trembling on his lips. "Mirza Saahib died today. And I..." His breath faltered, a painful sound clawing its way out of him. "I saw her. She held his hand, the same way I held my father's when he..." He couldn't finish, his voice collapsing under the weight of grief. "When he left me."

Her brow furrowed, and something in her softened, the sharp edges of her usual demeanor dulling. "What happened to your father?"

Zayn closed his eyes, the memories rushing in like a storm he couldn't withstand. "I woke up in the middle of the night," he began, his voice a hollow echo. "I was just a kid, scared of the dark. I went looking for him, hoping he'd comfort me. But when I got to his room..." His chest heaved, the words catching in his throat.

Her fingers stroked his hair, slow and steady, as if coaxing the rest out of him. "What did you see?"

His voice fell to a whisper, barely audible. "I saw his legs... hanging from the roof. His body, swinging in the dark." A shudder ran through him, and he buried his face in her lap. "I hugged his legs, screamed for help, begged the servants to come. But they didn't. No one came. I screamed until my voice broke, until I couldn't anymore."

Her hand faltered for a moment, then resumed, softer than before. "What about your mother?"

"She left him," he said bitterly, the words sharp and jagged. "For a richer man."

Her lips twisted into a faint, humorless smile. "Is he still rich?"

Zayn gave a hollow laugh, the sound as lifeless as his memories. "Not anymore."

"Figures," she said, shrugging as though the world's cruelties were nothing new. "She left for the money. I got sold for chicken."

His head lifted slightly, his eyes searching hers. "Chicken?"

She smiled, sharp and bitter, her humor biting through the pain. "Yeah. A whole meal. Maybe it was biryani. Maybe tikka. Who knows? My parents probably sat there having a hearty meal after selling me."

Her laugh broke in the middle, trembling at the edges. "I wonder if they named the chicken after me," she added, her voice faltering.

Zayn reached for her, his lips brushing hers with a tenderness neither of them was prepared for. Her heart stuttered, and for a moment, she felt the edges of her defenses cracking. But she pulled back, her walls snapping into place. "Don't fall for me," she muttered, her voice sharp, though her hands lingered in his hair.

His black eyes held hers, their depths unreadable. When he finally spoke, his words were a cruel whisper. "I would never."

She swallowed the ache rising in her throat, refusing to let him see how much those words hurt. She was just a brothel girl, wasn't she? A placeholder for the Laila who truly owned his heart.

Her smile returned, brittle and bitter, masking the broken pieces within. "Good," she said, her voice steady despite the storm in her chest. "You couldn't afford me anyway."

But as he rested his head against her lap, her hand still stroking his hair, she cursed the man who had sold her for a meal, cursed herself for caring, and cursed him most of all- for making her feel like more, only to remind her she wasn't.

He turned back to her, his expression unreadable. "What's your name again?" he asked, his tone detached, as if distancing himself from the vulnerability of the moment.

A small, knowing smile tugged at her lips. "What will you do with it, Zayn? You won't remember it anyway."

"Maybe not," he said, a faint smirk crossing his lips. "But tonight, I feel like asking."

"Laila," she said after a pause.

"Same as her," he whispered.

Pulling her scarf over her head, she smirked through her pain. "Does she do this?"

"Do what?" he asked, his brows furrowing.

"Cover her head," she replied, her voice tinged with mockery.

He nodded. "Yes. And she's serene. Even when she cried, there was peace in her face."

Her smile faltered, but she forced herself to hold it. "How lucky for her," she said, her voice soft, her sarcasm fading into something sadder.

And as Zayn sat there, lost in his thoughts, she looked at him and wondered. How could he find peace in a brothel when all she ever found was chaos?

"Are you thinking about him?" she asked, her tone barely above a whisper.

"Yeah," Zayn replied, his voice heavy. "A lot. He used to say something... that people only make mistakes when their heart and mind are weak at the same time."

Her fingers paused for a moment before resuming, more tender now. Her eyes softened with a love that Zayn craved, a love meant to heal. It was the kind of love Zayn came here for- the kind that made the cracks in his soul feel less jagged.

"And when does your heart weaken, Zayn?" she asked gently, her fingers stilling for a moment on his temple.

He opened his eyes and looked up at her. Her gaze held him, unwavering and unafraid. "Whenever I come here," he admitted, his voice low, almost ashamed.

She smiled faintly, a sadness creeping into her expression. "Then maybe you shouldn't come here anymore," she said, though her hands never stopped moving through his hair.

He sat up suddenly, breaking the spell. Her hands dropped to her lap as he turned to the window, his silhouette sharp against the warm light. "This place... it's just an illusion," he muttered. "A hollow play."

Her gaze lingered on him, her eyes reflecting a depth he couldn't fathom. "And what's real for you, Zayn?" she asked quietly. "What in your life isn't a performance?"

Her question hung in the air like smoke, wrapping around him. He didn't answer, instead pacing toward the window. The city lights stretched out endlessly before him, but they offered no answers.

He stood, pulling on his jacket, the weight of the night settling on his shoulders.

She followed him to the door, her footsteps soft, her presence a quiet, unspoken question. "Will you ever stay longer?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper, as if afraid of the answer.

He paused, glancing back, a fleeting smile ghosting across his lips. "The day I fall in love with you," he said softly, "I'll stay the night."

And then he was gone, swallowed by the darkness, leaving her standing there, her heart aching with words she couldn't say.

He told himself there was no attachment, no meaning to their hours together. But she was becoming something more- a habit, carved into his hollow life. Someone he couldn't survive with, yet couldn't imagine surviving without.